


Going Up

by LiraDonne



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Job, Elevator, Hand Job, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Porn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2012-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-01 12:24:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/356747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraDonne/pseuds/LiraDonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is tired of being taken advantage of and treated like a voiceless sidekick, so he decides to teach Sherlock a lesson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Up

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at smut! I hope you like it~ :3

John was not Sherlock’s _sidekick_. He did not appreciate being dragged from crime scene to crime scene like an amateur, ignored by the Man in Charge. John was a capable doctor, an ex-soldier, and so much more than the Robin to Sherlock’s Batman.

Sherlock, for all his brilliance, failed to understand that.

“Sherlock, Lestrade told us to _wait_ ,” said John, jogging after his swiftly-moving friend. The bastard didn’t even have the decency to turn around and look John in the face as they spoke. “He needs to come with us. We’ve only got my gun, and Bobby Fischer killed twelve people in one go! We need backup!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Time is of the essence. He won’t be at his flat much longer, so if we’re going to catch him, we need to go now. Would you rather let him escape and kill more people?”

“I would rather we didn’t let him kill us both,” John answered bitterly.

Sherlock raised his left hand and flicked his wrist, brushing off John’s concern like it wasn’t even a possibility. He continued hurrying toward the tower in which Bobby Fischer lived; with all the traffic at this time of day, walking half a dozen blocks was faster than taking a cab. Sherlock seemed to know that running down a busy street would arouse suspicion, but he was certainly walking faster than the rest of the people on the sidewalk, and it was enough to earn him dirty looks from those into whom he bumped.

John sighed but followed Sherlock anyway. He knew that Sherlock would be going with or without his assistance, and since John was the one with a gun, their odds were better as a team. Still, this was going directly against a police order, and John didn’t fancy getting in trouble with the law again.

“Just so you know, I _will_ be holding this against you if we survive.” John tried to sound threatening, but the considerable height difference between them wasn’t helping his cause.

Sherlock merely grinned and continued toward his target.

It took less than ten minutes of silent speed-walking to reach the tall, decrepit building of flats housing their suspect. They hurried into the dusty lobby and managed to get an elevator rather quickly. John pressed the button for the forty-second floor and Sherlock smashed the faded Close Doors button in rapid succession, impatient to get upstairs.

“Relax, Sherlock. We’re here, just over forty floors away from a murderer. Could you maybe _try_ to be patient?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if he were unwilling to dignify such a stupid question with a response.

John rubbed his temples as the lift began to rise.

“Do me a favor, alright? When we get there, don’t immediately bring up the fact that he’s killed a dozen people. We don’t want him on the defensive before we get a chance to assess the situation and figure out the best way to get him into cuffs. God, Sherlock, what if he has _backup?_ You didn’t even think about that, did you?”

“It is not of import.”

“ _Not of imp--?_ Look, I know you think you’re always right about everything, but I’m your _partner_. I get a say in how this goes. You’ve already disobeyed a police order, ignored me the whole walk here, and have nothing to defend yourself but a pair of handcuffs you nicked from Lestrade and my gun. You can’t insist on having the final say on everything if you’re going to put our lives in jeopardy and treat me like nothing.” John’s chest heaved with anger and the effort of forcing out sentiments which were so likely to elicit a dismissive reaction from their target.

Surprisingly, Sherlock snapped from his euphoric crime-solving reverie.

“I don’t think I’m right about _everything_ ,” he said, as if that was an adequate defense.

“Really? Because I know you’re excited about the case, and I know that takes first priority, but you’ve been a real jerk today. You haven’t _actually listened_ to a word I’ve said. I know your hearing’s fine, but you ignore everyone like our input is negligible! I’ll tell you what: it’s not. Other people know what they’re talking about and you need to learn to listen.”

“John, I—”

Whatever excuse had been on his lips was interrupted by a deep rumble, the shriek of  large metallic brakes, and the sputtering of electricity as their dingy elevator came to a halt and the lights dimmed.

“ _Shit_.” John didn’t even want to come here in the first place, and now they were stuck in an elevator, not too far from a mass murderer, clinging to waist-high hand rails as if holding on would somehow cushion the blow if the lift were to start free-falling. _Shit, shit, shit._

After a moment, they heard a static crackle and an overly-cheery female voice rang out through some ancient intercom.

“Our deepest apologies, gentlemen. There seems to be an issue with the electricity in one side of our building. We’re sending mechanics to fix the problem right away.”

Sherlock fumed. “Are you aware that your building is currently housing a murderer, ma’am? If you’d like him to be caught, I highly suggest that you correct this problem immediately.”

“Sir, if you’ll just calm down, I assure you we have our best people—”

“Sorry about him,” interrupted John. “What he meant to ask was if you knew how long we’d be, uh . . . stuck like this.”

“Estimated repair time is about an hour.”

Sherlock started to protest, but John clapped a hand over his mouth and shot him a warning glare through the dim, flickering light. “Right, thanks,” he called to the intercom. They heard it crackle again, and John assumed it was turned off.

“Sherlock, I’m going to remove my hand, but you have to promise to shut up until I’m finished.”

Sherlock nodded, and John slowly lowered his hand, keeping his eyes directly trained on Sherlock’s.

John paused for a moment, gazing through the near-darkness into artificially-dark gray eyes. There were so many more things he needed to say, so many things Sherlock needed to realize, but it was clear that words were not getting through to his brilliant mind, as if he was deleting the information as unimportant or irrelevant before it could even settle in his short-term memory.

“Enough with your excuses, Sherlock. You can be such a good person sometimes. When you’re not on a case, . . . God, you can even be a little bit selfless! You just need to learn to listen—to give other people a chance. And since you obviously won’t respond to verbal stimuli, perhaps. . . .” John hesitated, his eyes narrowing as the thought mulled around in his mind. His eyes flashed with the excitement of his decision, and he leaned in close to whisper the rest into Sherlock’s ear. “Perhaps I should try an approach that’s a little more . . . _physical._ ”

A shiver of surprise and delight ran down Sherlock’s spine, and John smiled. He’d somehow been struck with the luck of being trapped in a small, dimly-lit enclosed space with his beautiful and infuriating flatmate. Neither of them could make any excuse to run away, and John was not about to let this opportunity pass him by, but he didn’t have much time.

Channeling months of pent-up sexual frustration, he set to work, placing hot, wet kisses along Sherlock’s jaw. He longed to explore his mouth, if he were being completely honest, but this was about proving a point, and making out like a couple of horny teenagers was not the way to make it.

John moved slowly across Sherlock’s jaw, moving his hands behind Sherlock’s head to grip his hair and tilt his head back. John licked his way down Sherlock’s neck, nipping his earlobe and grazing his teeth across the sensitive skin behind his ear.

Sherlock tried to bring his hands around John’s waist to tug him closer, but this wasn’t about _his_ desires, and he needed to know that. John grabbed his wrists and pinned them to the wall above Sherlock’s head. “No,” he growled, and Sherlock whined, struggling uselessly against John’s grip. “ _No_ ,” John said again, his voice rougher this time. He transferred both of Sherlock’s wrists to his left hand and used his right to fish the handcuffs from Sherlock’s coat pocket.

“You _really_ don’t want me to use these,” he said, shoving a leg between Sherlock’s and pressing his knee just slightly upward.

Sherlock gasped and ground against his leg, seeking any kind of friction he could find, but John pulled away.

“We’re doing this on _my_ terms, Sherlock. You need to learn to listen. This is a _lesson_. No touching me, no grinding. Got it?”

“Y-yes,” Sherlock panted, tilting his head back—a silent request that John continue.

John laughed to himself, putting the handcuffs back in Sherlock’s pocket (for now) and releasing his wrists in favor of unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt. His mouth followed his hands as he kissed down Sherlock’s long, lean chest. When the shirt finally opened, he grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and sucked a soft nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the areola and grazing his teeth gently over the tip until hardened. After a minute, he turned his attention to the right nipple, giving it the same treatment as his thumb played with the over-sensitized left one.

Having decided that he’d tortured Sherlock enough, he started working his mouth back down Sherlock’s chest and sent his hands to undo Sherlock’s trousers. John made quick work of the belt and buttons, slid the trousers down to his ankles, and softly cupped Sherlock through his pants. He was magnificently hard, and John could detect a hint of moisture at the tip.

“Is this what you want?” he teased, his voice low and rough with his own arousal. “Do you want me to touch you?”

“Yes. Yes, John. _Yes_.”

“I’m not convinced,” sang John, dropping his hands. He smiled to himself as Sherlock clenched all of his muscles, aching to regain contact but aware that he was forbidden from touching John.

“Please, John. Please . . . touch me.” He squirmed against the wall but watched John for the effect his words had.

“Beg prettier.” John’s voice was low and commanding, his face impassive.

“John, I need you. Please, touch me. _Touch me_ , John. I need your hands on my cock. I need . . . and your lips . . . oh _God_ , John, _please_.” His white-knuckled hands were gripping the hand rail in an effort to keep from lunging at John, and he was positively _writhing_ with want, his penis leaking precome through his pants.

“Good boy,” John whispered, eyelids heavy with want, getting to his knees and pulling down the last material barrier, watching Sherlock’s impressive length spring free. John wrapped his left hand around the base for stability and grabbed Sherlock’s arse none-too-gently with his right, leaning forward and licking a slow stripe up the underside of his shaft. He ran his tongue over the glans a few times to sensitize it further, enjoying the heavy panting such a move provoked, before finally plunging the cock into his mouth.

John quickly went to work, interspersing hard sucks with broad swipes of his tongue between every few bobs of his head. He was able to take several inches into his mouth, and what didn’t fit was treated to skilled ministrations from his experienced left hand. It wasn’t long before he felt Sherlock getting close, and just as Sherlock started to murmur John’s name in warning, he pulled off completely with an obscene pop and stood up.

Sherlock began to stammer half-formed objections, but John shushed him.

“You mustn’t forget the purpose of this exercise. You need to listen. When this elevator starts moving again, you’re going to do things my way. It’s too late to turn back now, so fine, we’ll try to ambush the suspect. But we’re going to do it my way—stealthily, after analyzing the situation—and if I say we’re leaving, you follow my orders. You may have led us to the right guy, but _I_ have combat training; you’ll follow my orders until we’re out of danger. And in the future, you’ll listen when Lestrade and I tell you to stop being an idiot and do things the safe way. Got it?”

John could see the complaints behind Sherlock’s eyes, but just as John had planned, he was too far gone to care about fighting.

“Fine,” he said, squirming again to remind John that he needed some assistance.

John made a mental note to teach him about patience some other day, but he was pleased with how this experiment worked—so pleased, in fact, that he couldn’t resist leaning forward and placing a kiss on Sherlock’s open lips. It was meant to be a short, simple gesture of affection and thanks for the promise of being less of a jerk, but John couldn’t pull away. He’d wanted to hide his own erection, thinking that maybe it would go away or he could take care of it while Sherlock redressed, but it was too late now; his tongue was deep in Sherlock’s mouth, his fingers tangled in those soft, dark curls, and his hips were traitorously grinding against Sherlock’s.

If John had known that his “asexual” flatmate would taste so good or be so responsive, he would have kissed him a long time ago. He hadn’t had a snog this good since college. Apparently, he was not alone in that thought; sometime during their embrace, Sherlock had given up trying to follow the previous order of not touching John, because he currently had one hand on John’s neck and the other on his arse. Their legs were as intertwined as they could be without either of them falling over, the scent of arousal had completely filled the tiny elevator, and John, for one, was dying for release.

“Jerk me off,” he commanded, not caring that he sounded like a horny teenager. Much to his surprise, Sherlock obeyed. His pants were down within seconds and Sherlock’s long, graceful fingers were wrapped around his cock. He buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder as the consulting detective pumped him, remembering only after a moment that he should probably reciprocate.

In his lack of concentration, he gave a terribly erratic handjob, but it didn’t matter much; Sherlock was still near the edge from the earlier stimulation, so he came rather quickly. John watched his face as he jerked him through orgasm, amazed by how peaceful and happy Sherlock could look with his eyes closed tightly, head thrown back, and mouth open wide as he cried John’s name. He was so beautiful that John’s own orgasm followed shortly after, and he clung to Sherlock as he came, not letting go until several minutes afterward, when he could finally catch his breath.

John dug through his pockets and found some spare tissues which he shared with Sherlock so they could clean themselves up, giggling when they found traces of cum on the floor and even the walls.

They were just finishing getting dressed when the intercom crackled to life again.

“Hello again, gentlemen. You’ll be happy to hear that our mechanics have fixed the problem. You should be moving shortly. Mycroft Holmes sends his regards and wishes you both a delightful afternoon.”

_Mycroft Holmes?_ Sherlock began shouting a string of impolite words intermixed with angry sentiments regarding privacy and the importance of solving this case in a timely matter, but the intercom had already crackled offline and the elevator’s lights returned to full brightness. After a moment, the elevator made a series of loud and ominous-sounding noises and began moving upward again.

“John?” Sherlock asked politely.

“Yeah?”

“If we survive, please remind me to hire a hit-man to kill my brother.”

John laughed. “Deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> How did I do? Please leave a comment and let me know! Constructive criticism is always welcome~


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